“Free-stuff? More like free baggage!” Luna piped up, looking at the discarded wedding memento, a painting inscribed by guests with personal wishes to the newlyweds, now left to the sidewalk free-cycle giveaway wilds (presumably by one of the ex-spouses still residing in the brownstone behind the wrought iron rail on which it leaned).…
“I thought they outlawed plastic straws here,” Luna averred.
“Those aren’t straws,” I said. “They’re PVC gas mains.”
“That’s a straw!” she shot back in her best Daniel Plainview voice, with loud slurps.
“I love LA!” Luna declared.
“You’ve never been-”
“Shut up! Like you’d know!”
“Uh, hello…?” I pulled a poop bag from my pocket.
“Rrrr. New York’s cold & damp & everyone dresses like monkeys.
“Do you think they tossed it because the kid’s a musical disappointment?” Luna queried.
“C’mon,” I shook my head. “Not everyone’s Conservatory bound.”
She turned and taunted at a parlor window.